Today is my second blogiversary. Amazing. I never thought I'd think of enough things to write about. In fact, I guess I haven't, what with my purely intermittent ramblings. Anyway, thank you to anyone who's actually been paying attention. You're too kind.
I've a post about last weeks London Pride to complete (so you'll probably get to read that in, oh, December I should think), and I'd like to tell you all about this years summer holiday.
This week's been rather tough, and I've had to terminate the employment of one of my staff today - not a pleasant job, especially for a softie like me - so things have been a little tense.
So, I hope you all have a nice weekend - if you see me I could really do with a cider. Until next week...
If you are, then continue to do so and don't even think of stopping.
Oh, before I forget; if you happen to fancy going to see a movie this weekend can I stress how important it is that you don't get lured in to see "Mamma Mia!". It's abysmal, truly. If you must, save up the money and see it on the stage. You'll regret it otherwise...
Friday, July 11, 2008
Friday, July 04, 2008
Do You Take This Man?
We attended our second gay wedding on Saturday. (I'm refusing to call it "civil ceremony" - to all intents and purposes it's a marriage, and thus I'm sticking to "wedding").
We had to travel into the wilds of Essex… hang on…sorry, a little bit of sick just came up into my mouth. I have to admit that our friends live in a particuarly nice part of that grotty little county, far away from the spray-tanned, peroxide-maned masses (I'm talking about the Essex Male, obviously). I've mentioned our friends before, and if you've paid any attention to this story you'll probably have an incling of what was on their mind when they decided to invite a small group of filthy-minded homosexuals to their wedding, forcing them to mingle with their families, and then getting them spectacularly drunk.
We were on the gay table (quite literally later on, but more of that in a bit), with an incredibly gregarious northerner who we'd see around once or twice before, and three other guys who we'd not met, including a "just out" 20 year old cousin who wanted deperately to mix with the "old queens". Harumph! The wedding itself was terribly proper, and very formal. In fact, it followed the typical straight model, apart from having two (hilarious) best man speeches.
After the food the disco started, and someone had obviously told the DJ it was a gay event as he wheeled out one cliched anthem after another. YMCA? Check. Dancing Queen? Check. The Time Warp? Check. The list goes on, trust me. In fact, it became apparent that he only had wedding reception music, as he brought out the big guns - the Grease Megamix, Saturday Night, and Love Shack. Kylie, Madonna and Cher also made at least one appearance each.
So, we got drunk, we danced, we mingled, and then the evening guests started to arrive, including a very tall, well-built Scot, who seemed to be some sort of octopus in disguise, judging by the roving hands.
Finally I got to the point where I needed a break from being sociable (being the natural born loner that I am), so I headed out into the quiet part of the garden on the other side of the house, found the furthest corner to be desserted, and sat in a garden chair looking at the stars. I was soon joined by one of the grooms (formerly known as "The Policeman Who Won't Stop Cumming"). I consider him to be one of the sexiest guys I know, and one of the nicest. We spent a lovely 10 minutes chatting before being interrupted by the Gregacious Northerner, who said that My Favourite Groom's husband was looking for him. So off he went, but not before telling me I wasn't to go anywhere.
That left me in a quiet corner of the garden with the Gregarious Northerner, who promptly whipped out his (very excited looking) member and presented it to me. Well, what's a boy to do?
A short while later I wandered back in to the marquee that was home to the reception, to a knowing look from The Boyf. "Everyone's talking about you", he whispered. "I think word's got round". So I spent the next couple of hours being terribly well behaved.
Finally, the guests started to leave, until we were left with just both grooms, The Boyf and myself, the Gregarious Northerner, and the Scottish Octopus. And then it got really messy. My Favourite Groom and I made a quiet exit into the garden, but not before witnessing the Scottish Octopus being stripped and thrown onto a table, the decoration and assorted items crashing to the floor.
And then My Favourite Groom and I found ourselves back in our quiet corner of the garden, naked and intertwined, looking at the stars and at the first paling of the sky signalling the impending dawn. And a very lovely hour or so it was too. And do you know? Nothing happened between us, apart from the cuddling and the talking, and that suited us both just fine. It was one of those times I'll never forget.
We had to travel into the wilds of Essex… hang on…sorry, a little bit of sick just came up into my mouth. I have to admit that our friends live in a particuarly nice part of that grotty little county, far away from the spray-tanned, peroxide-maned masses (I'm talking about the Essex Male, obviously). I've mentioned our friends before, and if you've paid any attention to this story you'll probably have an incling of what was on their mind when they decided to invite a small group of filthy-minded homosexuals to their wedding, forcing them to mingle with their families, and then getting them spectacularly drunk.
We were on the gay table (quite literally later on, but more of that in a bit), with an incredibly gregarious northerner who we'd see around once or twice before, and three other guys who we'd not met, including a "just out" 20 year old cousin who wanted deperately to mix with the "old queens". Harumph! The wedding itself was terribly proper, and very formal. In fact, it followed the typical straight model, apart from having two (hilarious) best man speeches.
After the food the disco started, and someone had obviously told the DJ it was a gay event as he wheeled out one cliched anthem after another. YMCA? Check. Dancing Queen? Check. The Time Warp? Check. The list goes on, trust me. In fact, it became apparent that he only had wedding reception music, as he brought out the big guns - the Grease Megamix, Saturday Night, and Love Shack. Kylie, Madonna and Cher also made at least one appearance each.
So, we got drunk, we danced, we mingled, and then the evening guests started to arrive, including a very tall, well-built Scot, who seemed to be some sort of octopus in disguise, judging by the roving hands.
Finally I got to the point where I needed a break from being sociable (being the natural born loner that I am), so I headed out into the quiet part of the garden on the other side of the house, found the furthest corner to be desserted, and sat in a garden chair looking at the stars. I was soon joined by one of the grooms (formerly known as "The Policeman Who Won't Stop Cumming"). I consider him to be one of the sexiest guys I know, and one of the nicest. We spent a lovely 10 minutes chatting before being interrupted by the Gregacious Northerner, who said that My Favourite Groom's husband was looking for him. So off he went, but not before telling me I wasn't to go anywhere.
That left me in a quiet corner of the garden with the Gregarious Northerner, who promptly whipped out his (very excited looking) member and presented it to me. Well, what's a boy to do?
A short while later I wandered back in to the marquee that was home to the reception, to a knowing look from The Boyf. "Everyone's talking about you", he whispered. "I think word's got round". So I spent the next couple of hours being terribly well behaved.
Finally, the guests started to leave, until we were left with just both grooms, The Boyf and myself, the Gregarious Northerner, and the Scottish Octopus. And then it got really messy. My Favourite Groom and I made a quiet exit into the garden, but not before witnessing the Scottish Octopus being stripped and thrown onto a table, the decoration and assorted items crashing to the floor.
And then My Favourite Groom and I found ourselves back in our quiet corner of the garden, naked and intertwined, looking at the stars and at the first paling of the sky signalling the impending dawn. And a very lovely hour or so it was too. And do you know? Nothing happened between us, apart from the cuddling and the talking, and that suited us both just fine. It was one of those times I'll never forget.
Monday, June 23, 2008
OMO At The Movies: "The Incredible Hulk"
Frankly, a pleasant surprise. I really wasn't expecting anything, and I guess therein lies the reason I enjoyed it so much.
I mean, I fucking hate the last Hulk film, and this one didn't look any better from the trailers. But actually it's better paced, nicer to look at and the CGI is better, although still not great (especially The Abomination, which looks like it was drawn on by a child, blind-folded. With Parkinson's Disease. Sitting on a washing machine during its spin-cycle).
Still, the Hulk is totally hot. I'd so do him, especially when he's sitting on that rock in the rain. And he's obviously a bottom. You can just tell. Those big Americans are all the same. All gruff and muscular when you meet and then as soon as you get them home they fall face first onto the bed and flutter their eye-lashes at you.
So, all in all, a surprising thumbs up. Again, don't go expecting to have to use your brain. You knew that already, right?
Oh, and make sure you watch Iron Man first, that's all I'm saying...
I mean, I fucking hate the last Hulk film, and this one didn't look any better from the trailers. But actually it's better paced, nicer to look at and the CGI is better, although still not great (especially The Abomination, which looks like it was drawn on by a child, blind-folded. With Parkinson's Disease. Sitting on a washing machine during its spin-cycle).
Still, the Hulk is totally hot. I'd so do him, especially when he's sitting on that rock in the rain. And he's obviously a bottom. You can just tell. Those big Americans are all the same. All gruff and muscular when you meet and then as soon as you get them home they fall face first onto the bed and flutter their eye-lashes at you.
So, all in all, a surprising thumbs up. Again, don't go expecting to have to use your brain. You knew that already, right?
Oh, and make sure you watch Iron Man first, that's all I'm saying...
Friday, June 20, 2008
Yazoo
Well, I never thought I'd see the day when I'd be watching Yazoo in concert, but that's exactly what happened last night.They were marvellous, as I expected them to be. Alison has such an incredible voice, and you can't fail to fall in love with her. It was all like a little trip back to the 80's. Certainly some people in the audience looked like they were stuck in that particular decade. Oh, speaking of the audience; how gay was it?! And how sexy?! The Boyf and I both remarked that we'd never seen so many sexy guys at one gig before, and they were all very friendly. Unfortunately for The Boyf a girl a few seats away took a shine and wouldn't leave him alone, although she was very nice.
Anyway, back to the music. They played almost everything they'd recorded together. I flicked through both albums this morning on my iPod and think there are only about 4 songs missing from the gig. Plus we had a very odd little musical interlude whilst both went off to "have a fag". Alison also drank Cognac throughout, and had some witty banter with the audience. And danced really badly.
Highlights for me were "Goodbye 70's", "Situation", "Don't Go", "Nobody's Diary", "Ode To Boy", "Bring Your Love Down [Didn't I]", and of course "Only You", which was their encore, but to be honest it's a bit like picking your favourite child.
I wish I could see them again. Once is certainly not enough, and I wish we'd gone to Brighton last Sunday too (we actually had tickets and decided not to go as we were seeing them in London anyway). Fingers crossed they get together again sometime. If you have a chance to see them at one of their remaining gigs don't pass it up.
Oh, the London gigs have been recorded for a live CD to be released, so I'm rather looking forward to that.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
The Hustlaball
The Boyf and I had been looking forward to The Hustlaball for weeks, even though we didn't seem to know anyone that was going.
We've been having a quiet few weeks, and I'll admit that I've not been enjoying clubbing when we've been recently. It was no surprise then to find that I didn't really enjoy The Hustlaball. However, I was very much in the minority.
For reasons best known only to himself The Boyf had decided to fork out on VIP tickets, at £70 a pop. For that you got an exclusive 10pm start with a champagne reception to meet the pornstars etc, a VIP cloakroom, and a special reserved area when when it was all getting too much.
We arrived at 10 to make the most of that first hour, but then had to queue til nearly 10.30, and then had a further 10 minute wait for the VIP cloakroom. To say it was badly organised is to seriously underplay it. Then we were refused the free champagne as we didn't have a token, but we cajoled the barman enough that he finally relented anyway.
By this time the doors were opening to the general hoi-polloi, and the place was rapidly rammed. At least it would have been if the cloakrooms were organised enough. I don't know what it is with London club cloakrooms - they're almost universally shambolic.
So, let me tell you about the layout. Area's main floor was the usual long, very dark room, but with a stage built at the far end for the "performances", of which we saw none. The music was pretty dark, and leant towards what I consider to be circuit party music. The smaller room was more hands-in-the-air, and the from Embankment Bar was playing a mixture of commercial house and electro. It was also the busiest room and where we spent most of the night. Depot was taken over by Hard On, with the front bar acting as a mini-dancefloor, complete with dancers on podiums and the bar itself, and the back room (what used to be Crash's main dancefloor) was an interestingly decked out playroom (and was very popular).
As for the men, they were a very pleasant mixture of Megawoof! crowd, Hard On regulars and general club bunnies, and it was nice to see such disparate factions mixing and enjoying themselves together. Generally, there were some very hot men around, and not one of them - ok, perhaps one - was one of the much publicised porn stars.
A few hours in The Boyf pointed across the room and said "Oh my God! Look at that guy!". Yes, he was lovely. Very, very lovely. Egyptian, with piercing brown eyes and a perfect hairy chest. He was also heading our way. I turned back to The Boyf to wait for him to pass us by, but then suddenly found very large hairy arms encircling my waist. The Boyf's mouth had dropped open. Shit, no, it couldn't be. I felt lips on the back of my neck and then a whispered "Hello" in my ear. I turned, and it was indeed him. We pawed at each other and kissed, then started to dance, his hairy torso pressed against me, his eyes boaring into mine. (Sorry, this is turning into a Mills & Boon novel). Suddenly coming to my senses I thought I ought to introduce him to The Boyf - like, if I must! - and we all exchanged pleasantries. And then he danced with us for the rest of the night, which meant that as far as I was concerned I had the best view in the place.
So why didn't I enjoy myself? Well, thank you for asking. It was because it became very apparent that the Egyptian was doing a certain drug, one which The Boyf and I refuse to touch, and that made me worried. To be honest I'd have preferred it if we'd had a little grapple and then he'd moved on, but the longer he stayed with us the more I started to worry that we was going to drop at some point, and it was making me nervous. In the end he didn't, and by the time we made our way home (at 6am) he was still fine and dandy, so I'd worried for nothing. But still, I've seen this drug cause too many problems, and I'll always be wary of people who are on it.
So, all in all, it was actually a better evening in retrospect than it was at the time. I'd certainly go to another if they do one. Just don't bother with the VIP tickets.
We've been having a quiet few weeks, and I'll admit that I've not been enjoying clubbing when we've been recently. It was no surprise then to find that I didn't really enjoy The Hustlaball. However, I was very much in the minority.
For reasons best known only to himself The Boyf had decided to fork out on VIP tickets, at £70 a pop. For that you got an exclusive 10pm start with a champagne reception to meet the pornstars etc, a VIP cloakroom, and a special reserved area when when it was all getting too much.
We arrived at 10 to make the most of that first hour, but then had to queue til nearly 10.30, and then had a further 10 minute wait for the VIP cloakroom. To say it was badly organised is to seriously underplay it. Then we were refused the free champagne as we didn't have a token, but we cajoled the barman enough that he finally relented anyway.
By this time the doors were opening to the general hoi-polloi, and the place was rapidly rammed. At least it would have been if the cloakrooms were organised enough. I don't know what it is with London club cloakrooms - they're almost universally shambolic.
So, let me tell you about the layout. Area's main floor was the usual long, very dark room, but with a stage built at the far end for the "performances", of which we saw none. The music was pretty dark, and leant towards what I consider to be circuit party music. The smaller room was more hands-in-the-air, and the from Embankment Bar was playing a mixture of commercial house and electro. It was also the busiest room and where we spent most of the night. Depot was taken over by Hard On, with the front bar acting as a mini-dancefloor, complete with dancers on podiums and the bar itself, and the back room (what used to be Crash's main dancefloor) was an interestingly decked out playroom (and was very popular).
As for the men, they were a very pleasant mixture of Megawoof! crowd, Hard On regulars and general club bunnies, and it was nice to see such disparate factions mixing and enjoying themselves together. Generally, there were some very hot men around, and not one of them - ok, perhaps one - was one of the much publicised porn stars.
A few hours in The Boyf pointed across the room and said "Oh my God! Look at that guy!". Yes, he was lovely. Very, very lovely. Egyptian, with piercing brown eyes and a perfect hairy chest. He was also heading our way. I turned back to The Boyf to wait for him to pass us by, but then suddenly found very large hairy arms encircling my waist. The Boyf's mouth had dropped open. Shit, no, it couldn't be. I felt lips on the back of my neck and then a whispered "Hello" in my ear. I turned, and it was indeed him. We pawed at each other and kissed, then started to dance, his hairy torso pressed against me, his eyes boaring into mine. (Sorry, this is turning into a Mills & Boon novel). Suddenly coming to my senses I thought I ought to introduce him to The Boyf - like, if I must! - and we all exchanged pleasantries. And then he danced with us for the rest of the night, which meant that as far as I was concerned I had the best view in the place.
So why didn't I enjoy myself? Well, thank you for asking. It was because it became very apparent that the Egyptian was doing a certain drug, one which The Boyf and I refuse to touch, and that made me worried. To be honest I'd have preferred it if we'd had a little grapple and then he'd moved on, but the longer he stayed with us the more I started to worry that we was going to drop at some point, and it was making me nervous. In the end he didn't, and by the time we made our way home (at 6am) he was still fine and dandy, so I'd worried for nothing. But still, I've seen this drug cause too many problems, and I'll always be wary of people who are on it.
So, all in all, it was actually a better evening in retrospect than it was at the time. I'd certainly go to another if they do one. Just don't bother with the VIP tickets.
OMO At The Movies: "Iron Man"
The Boyf and I have been to see three films in quick succession, so I'm only going to do a very small review of each.
First up it's "Iron Man"...
Ok, so I have a "thing" for Robert Downey Jr and I don't know why! There, I said it. Again. I know he's not all that, but I like his cheeky charm, and even forcing myself to (partly) sit through "A Scanner Darkly" didn't detract from it. Never did manage to get all the way through that film...
I really enjoyed "Iron Man". And yes, I know I like superhero movies. Ok, ok, give me a break. When I go to the pictures - a phrase which sounds like the films could very well be in black and white and come accompanied by a guy rising from the floor on a Whirlitzer - I go to be entertained. I go to eat chocolate, suspend disbelief and relax for a couple of hours. I generally don't go to see films which are going to be hard work. Those I reserve for when I'm at home.
So, with that in mind; was I entertained? Unreservedly yes.
Was it all a bit ham-fisted? Oh yes.
Was the plot so thin it resembled Paris Hilton on hunger strike? Indeed.
Well thought out, three dimensional characters? Er... no.
Does Gwyneth Paltrow possess any discernible talent? Absolutely not.
If you like your movies fast-paced, fun to look and like to not have to think for 90 minutes at a time then you'll like it.
One question though. How on Earth did Tony Stark manage to build the original Iron Man suit whilst imprisoned a cave, using bits of old scrap, without anyone noticing even though he was under constant surveillance, and utilising technology he couldn't get to work in a lab? Oh, and why did he have the plans for the suit on him in the first place?
Answers on a postcard to OMO Towers...
First up it's "Iron Man"...
Ok, so I have a "thing" for Robert Downey Jr and I don't know why! There, I said it. Again. I know he's not all that, but I like his cheeky charm, and even forcing myself to (partly) sit through "A Scanner Darkly" didn't detract from it. Never did manage to get all the way through that film...
I really enjoyed "Iron Man". And yes, I know I like superhero movies. Ok, ok, give me a break. When I go to the pictures - a phrase which sounds like the films could very well be in black and white and come accompanied by a guy rising from the floor on a Whirlitzer - I go to be entertained. I go to eat chocolate, suspend disbelief and relax for a couple of hours. I generally don't go to see films which are going to be hard work. Those I reserve for when I'm at home.
So, with that in mind; was I entertained? Unreservedly yes.
Was it all a bit ham-fisted? Oh yes.
Was the plot so thin it resembled Paris Hilton on hunger strike? Indeed.
Well thought out, three dimensional characters? Er... no.
Does Gwyneth Paltrow possess any discernible talent? Absolutely not.
If you like your movies fast-paced, fun to look and like to not have to think for 90 minutes at a time then you'll like it.
One question though. How on Earth did Tony Stark manage to build the original Iron Man suit whilst imprisoned a cave, using bits of old scrap, without anyone noticing even though he was under constant surveillance, and utilising technology he couldn't get to work in a lab? Oh, and why did he have the plans for the suit on him in the first place?
Answers on a postcard to OMO Towers...
Thursday, June 12, 2008
OMO At The Movies: "Sex And The City"
Fuck me, this film seems to go on forever. Wouldn't they have been better just making a 2 part mini-series? Oh no, of course that wouldn't have made as much money. Silly me.
One good thing's come out though; I've now taken to flying to New York to hire a fabulously gauche new hand-bag every week rather than having to constantly buy them to keep up with the latest fad.
We went on a Thursday night, and I honestly can't remember the last time I saw our local cinema completely packed out mid-week. The only problem was that in an audience of a fair few hundred only 4 of us were men. The place resembled a massive hen-night. A cheap hen-night at that. You know, the sort of hen-night that attracts that type of girl you often see hanging out of a limo' sunroof near Piccadilly Circus - invariably wearing bunny-rabbit ears and/or angel-wings - screaming obscenities at unsuspecting men on the pavement, with the sound of 10 drunk girls within wailing along to "I've Had The Time Of My Life" from Dirty Dancing only barely muffled by the thankfully blacked-out windows.
In short, it was the type of hyped-up crowd which I imagine you get just before the Chippendales come on stage. You could quite literally smell the oestrogen in the air. A hush descended over the crowd as all heads swung round in our direction. I'd read about this with sharks; they could smell blood for miles and would come to investigate, circling the prey. As soon as one finally went for the kill a huge feeding frenzy would begin, with anything in the vicinity likely to be eaten. The Boyf and I eyed each other nervously. "Act camp", I whispered, "it's the only way we'll get out of here alive".
The Drag Queen - who we'd taken along as cover and body-guard - pushed us up the aisle and into some seats, where we had to scramble over discarded accessories. I don't think I've ever seen so many bags and coats and jumpers in my life before. What is it with women and having to have everything with them all the time? And shoes! Why had they all taken their shoes off?
The women talked all of the way through the trailers, so much so that I couldn't hear the trailer for The Dark Knight, which I'd been looking forward to. The Drag Queen also chatted throughout - to us and any girl in the vicinity, as girls have want to do. Apparently trailers are a boy thing.
Then the film started, which I thought would be a mercy until I began to realise how long it was going to be, and that the audience were going to cheer/sob/laugh/applaud etc at every unfolding event. I say "unfolding event" like it had a plot. Basically it's this (here come the spoilers); Carrie and Big are getting married, Steve cheats on Miranda and they split up, Big jilts Carrie at the altar, Carrie implores Miranda to learn the meaning of forgiveness thereby learning it herself and forgiving Big, Big and Carrie get married. Between these major events are Samantha's reluctance to get old (still), and Charlotte being pregnant, which apparently has had the same effect on her as a frontal lobotomy. The whole forgiveness thing is given a further push by Jennifer Hudson's character, which is shoe-horned into the proceedings with little to do other than labour the point, just in case the Miranda/Steve situation wasn't already obvious enough.
Interspersing the whole thing is a veritable cornucopia of hideous frocks, bags and shoes.
And was it even filmed in New York? We get to see precious little of the city they so love (apart from the steps up to Carrie's apartment). I guess the title doesn't actually state which city, so perhaps they thought they'd film any outdoor scene which didn't involve Central Park in Vancouver.
So, my conclusion? Yes, amazingly I did actually enjoy it, but only because I liked the series in the first place. Ok, Sex And The City never set the world alight, but it was always an easy watch, and the film's exactly the same. It's the movie equivalent of Heat magazine. No reason to catch it on the big screen, but if you are a fan then no doubt you'll want to see it at some point.
One good thing's come out though; I've now taken to flying to New York to hire a fabulously gauche new hand-bag every week rather than having to constantly buy them to keep up with the latest fad.
We went on a Thursday night, and I honestly can't remember the last time I saw our local cinema completely packed out mid-week. The only problem was that in an audience of a fair few hundred only 4 of us were men. The place resembled a massive hen-night. A cheap hen-night at that. You know, the sort of hen-night that attracts that type of girl you often see hanging out of a limo' sunroof near Piccadilly Circus - invariably wearing bunny-rabbit ears and/or angel-wings - screaming obscenities at unsuspecting men on the pavement, with the sound of 10 drunk girls within wailing along to "I've Had The Time Of My Life" from Dirty Dancing only barely muffled by the thankfully blacked-out windows.
In short, it was the type of hyped-up crowd which I imagine you get just before the Chippendales come on stage. You could quite literally smell the oestrogen in the air. A hush descended over the crowd as all heads swung round in our direction. I'd read about this with sharks; they could smell blood for miles and would come to investigate, circling the prey. As soon as one finally went for the kill a huge feeding frenzy would begin, with anything in the vicinity likely to be eaten. The Boyf and I eyed each other nervously. "Act camp", I whispered, "it's the only way we'll get out of here alive".
The Drag Queen - who we'd taken along as cover and body-guard - pushed us up the aisle and into some seats, where we had to scramble over discarded accessories. I don't think I've ever seen so many bags and coats and jumpers in my life before. What is it with women and having to have everything with them all the time? And shoes! Why had they all taken their shoes off?
The women talked all of the way through the trailers, so much so that I couldn't hear the trailer for The Dark Knight, which I'd been looking forward to. The Drag Queen also chatted throughout - to us and any girl in the vicinity, as girls have want to do. Apparently trailers are a boy thing.
Then the film started, which I thought would be a mercy until I began to realise how long it was going to be, and that the audience were going to cheer/sob/laugh/applaud etc at every unfolding event. I say "unfolding event" like it had a plot. Basically it's this (here come the spoilers); Carrie and Big are getting married, Steve cheats on Miranda and they split up, Big jilts Carrie at the altar, Carrie implores Miranda to learn the meaning of forgiveness thereby learning it herself and forgiving Big, Big and Carrie get married. Between these major events are Samantha's reluctance to get old (still), and Charlotte being pregnant, which apparently has had the same effect on her as a frontal lobotomy. The whole forgiveness thing is given a further push by Jennifer Hudson's character, which is shoe-horned into the proceedings with little to do other than labour the point, just in case the Miranda/Steve situation wasn't already obvious enough.
Interspersing the whole thing is a veritable cornucopia of hideous frocks, bags and shoes.
And was it even filmed in New York? We get to see precious little of the city they so love (apart from the steps up to Carrie's apartment). I guess the title doesn't actually state which city, so perhaps they thought they'd film any outdoor scene which didn't involve Central Park in Vancouver.
So, my conclusion? Yes, amazingly I did actually enjoy it, but only because I liked the series in the first place. Ok, Sex And The City never set the world alight, but it was always an easy watch, and the film's exactly the same. It's the movie equivalent of Heat magazine. No reason to catch it on the big screen, but if you are a fan then no doubt you'll want to see it at some point.
Friday, June 06, 2008
…Or Are You Just Pleased To See Me?
We went to Hard On on Saturday, for the first time this year if I'm not very much mistaken.
Oh, hang on, I've not told you about Friday yet.
So, Friday evening I jumped on a train after work and met up with The Boyf in Brighton. Being a school holiday he'd gone down for the day to make the most of the nice weather they were suddenly having, and to meet up with an old college friend. I went straight to the friend's house and he and his boyfriend cooked us a light meal before we headed out to some bars.
I like Brighton. It has a more laid-back feel compared to London, but there's still plenty to do, although it all has that slight provincial feel to it. We started our evening in The Star (the local bear bar) but not much was happening, so we quickly moved to Legends. For a Friday - with good weather - it seemed a little quiet, so we moved to GBH (a club for "blokes"). It was dead, the only saving grace being a very cute doorman. But then a few people started to turn up and among them was a cute guy I'd spotted earlier in the evening. The drinks flowed, we dragged the table-cloths from the tables and ran about the place with them as capes, and at some point or other managed to get very drunk. Then the cute guy made a pass at us. He was incredibly forward and chatty, which I greatly admired (being the wall-flower that I am). It must get him laid pretty regularly, and it was certainly working tonight.
He dragged us to another bar, and The Boyf's friends called it a night, obviously realising what was in the offing. During the course of our chatting it transpired that we knew a lot of people in common (surprise, surprise), and the flirting got more and more intense, until The Boyf finally said "So, let's go to your house".
It turned out he lived only 100 yards away from The Boyf's friends, which was handy, and once we got back to his house he proceeded to show us (ok, bore us) with lots of things on his computer. Again The Boyf came to the rescue with an abrupt "Look, why don't you just get your cock out".
He did. And there was much rejoicing. Just for the record - for the voyeurs among you - it was almost as thick as a coke can, although not especially long, and came served with a matching pair of very large balls. As The Boyf would say "It's better to be stretched than probed". Luckily I have no gag reflex and often resemble a python dislocating its mouth to swallow something larger than itself. We finally dragged ourselves back to the friend's house at 6am, feeling rather worse for wear.
Amazingly we were up again at 10.30, and I felt fine. No hangover or anything. The four of us headed out for breakfast by the beach, by which time the sun was blazing, so we headed onto the beach for a few hours before The Boyf and I headed home. It was only when we got back to a very grey London that I realised how sun-burnt I was, just in time for Hard On...
The Boyf persuaded me to wear the rubber shorts, but I'm still very aware that I look like an over-cooked sausage in them. Still, I do actually like my legs and they were commented on (in a good way, I hasten to add) which made me feel a bit more relaxed.
As you may have noticed I'm not particularly into public displays of group sex. Huh? No, really, I'm not. Honest. Anyway, the drinks flowed (again) and I relaxed a bit more, and then the little muscley guy on the podium dancing with his cock out suddenly started to look more attractive. Certainly, his cock bobbing about at eye-level was having the same effect as when you dangle a ball of wool in front of a cat. Finally I pounced. And then it all started to escalate. I'm not going into details but it probably wasn't a pretty sight to be honest. To tell the truth there are a lot of not-pretty sights at Hard On anyway, so I'm sure we fitted right in.
We ended the night in Chariots Sauna (Vauxhall) - my first visit. I was just thankful for being able to finally peel the rubber shorts off, which contained what appeared to be enough sweat to fill a small paddling pool. Whoever first thought of wearing rubber for clubbing was obviously a mental.
Chariots was actually quite amusing, but then I usually think that about saunas. I have trouble taking most supposedly highly-charged sexual situations seriously - if you ever hear anyone with a fit of the giggles in a dark-room it's likely to be me. I mean, everyone takes it all so seriously. I just don’t get it. Yeah, yeah, I know that there are times when you get into a groove and it all gets heated, but generally I prefer to be able to smile or laugh when I'm enjoying myself, and sex is to be enjoyed, isn't it? Certainly the best nights sex I've had have all included interludes of uncontrollable giggling.
So, Chariots was ok for a chill-out, and The Boyf disappeared for a little while whilst I sat in the lounge watching Sky News. And therein lies the difference in how we relax.
All in all a fun Saturday night out. We're now building up to the Hustlaball. Who's coming?
Oh, hang on, I've not told you about Friday yet.
So, Friday evening I jumped on a train after work and met up with The Boyf in Brighton. Being a school holiday he'd gone down for the day to make the most of the nice weather they were suddenly having, and to meet up with an old college friend. I went straight to the friend's house and he and his boyfriend cooked us a light meal before we headed out to some bars.
I like Brighton. It has a more laid-back feel compared to London, but there's still plenty to do, although it all has that slight provincial feel to it. We started our evening in The Star (the local bear bar) but not much was happening, so we quickly moved to Legends. For a Friday - with good weather - it seemed a little quiet, so we moved to GBH (a club for "blokes"). It was dead, the only saving grace being a very cute doorman. But then a few people started to turn up and among them was a cute guy I'd spotted earlier in the evening. The drinks flowed, we dragged the table-cloths from the tables and ran about the place with them as capes, and at some point or other managed to get very drunk. Then the cute guy made a pass at us. He was incredibly forward and chatty, which I greatly admired (being the wall-flower that I am). It must get him laid pretty regularly, and it was certainly working tonight.
He dragged us to another bar, and The Boyf's friends called it a night, obviously realising what was in the offing. During the course of our chatting it transpired that we knew a lot of people in common (surprise, surprise), and the flirting got more and more intense, until The Boyf finally said "So, let's go to your house".
It turned out he lived only 100 yards away from The Boyf's friends, which was handy, and once we got back to his house he proceeded to show us (ok, bore us) with lots of things on his computer. Again The Boyf came to the rescue with an abrupt "Look, why don't you just get your cock out".
He did. And there was much rejoicing. Just for the record - for the voyeurs among you - it was almost as thick as a coke can, although not especially long, and came served with a matching pair of very large balls. As The Boyf would say "It's better to be stretched than probed". Luckily I have no gag reflex and often resemble a python dislocating its mouth to swallow something larger than itself. We finally dragged ourselves back to the friend's house at 6am, feeling rather worse for wear.
Amazingly we were up again at 10.30, and I felt fine. No hangover or anything. The four of us headed out for breakfast by the beach, by which time the sun was blazing, so we headed onto the beach for a few hours before The Boyf and I headed home. It was only when we got back to a very grey London that I realised how sun-burnt I was, just in time for Hard On...
The Boyf persuaded me to wear the rubber shorts, but I'm still very aware that I look like an over-cooked sausage in them. Still, I do actually like my legs and they were commented on (in a good way, I hasten to add) which made me feel a bit more relaxed.
As you may have noticed I'm not particularly into public displays of group sex. Huh? No, really, I'm not. Honest. Anyway, the drinks flowed (again) and I relaxed a bit more, and then the little muscley guy on the podium dancing with his cock out suddenly started to look more attractive. Certainly, his cock bobbing about at eye-level was having the same effect as when you dangle a ball of wool in front of a cat. Finally I pounced. And then it all started to escalate. I'm not going into details but it probably wasn't a pretty sight to be honest. To tell the truth there are a lot of not-pretty sights at Hard On anyway, so I'm sure we fitted right in.
We ended the night in Chariots Sauna (Vauxhall) - my first visit. I was just thankful for being able to finally peel the rubber shorts off, which contained what appeared to be enough sweat to fill a small paddling pool. Whoever first thought of wearing rubber for clubbing was obviously a mental.
Chariots was actually quite amusing, but then I usually think that about saunas. I have trouble taking most supposedly highly-charged sexual situations seriously - if you ever hear anyone with a fit of the giggles in a dark-room it's likely to be me. I mean, everyone takes it all so seriously. I just don’t get it. Yeah, yeah, I know that there are times when you get into a groove and it all gets heated, but generally I prefer to be able to smile or laugh when I'm enjoying myself, and sex is to be enjoyed, isn't it? Certainly the best nights sex I've had have all included interludes of uncontrollable giggling.
So, Chariots was ok for a chill-out, and The Boyf disappeared for a little while whilst I sat in the lounge watching Sky News. And therein lies the difference in how we relax.
All in all a fun Saturday night out. We're now building up to the Hustlaball. Who's coming?
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
The Bank Holiday Round Up (Finally)
Yet again I write something then forget to post it. So, what's been happening...
We had a lovely Bank Holiday weekend, as it turned out. The Boyf's back is well on the mend, so we made the most of it and went out.
Friday night was Tonka, which was quieter than we assumed it was going to be. Always a good social event though.
We went to the gym for the first time in I don't know how long on Saturday, then wandered along the South Bank to have lunch at Brown's (I can thoroughly recommend the Elderflower Mojito - absolutely gorgeous), and to have a look at the Telectroscope, which looks like a giant camera that has crash-landed outside of the Mayor's building. For those of you who don't know, the story goes that they've dug a top-secret tunnel through the Earth between London and New York, and then placed a magnifying device at both ends (the Telectroscope) which enables people to see straight through from either end. It's a lovely idea and had a huge queue of people vying for a look. Although I've not actually read how they've done it I'm assuming that there's simply a camera at either end transmitting images to the opposing city. This is what modern art should be about - something to get involved in and make people talk. Certainly I could hear people in the queue completely taken in by the tunnel story.
We went to the theatre on Saturday evening to see "Wicked", finally. Kerry Ellis (as Elphaba) is amazing. She has such a lovely, non-theatre, singing voice, and I can see why she's leaving to reprise the role on Broadway next month. Apparently she's back in the London production in December, and we're planning on going again to see her. On the whole I thoroughly enjoyed it, even (almost) managing to suspend disbelief. If you haven't seen it already I recommend it, but try to go before Kerry leaves.
Sunday was "I Love Vauxhall" - basically Vauxhall Pride, and thankfully it stopped raining and dried out for the duration. It was a good little event, and certainly a good starting place for an annual affair. We went with the inevitable Drag Queen and OBM's, and then bumped into My Big Little Sister and his lovely husband. And of course, we can't go to Vauxhall on a Sunday without stopping by at the Tavern, but on this occasion it was only a short interlude before we headed home to get ready for XXL Fusion.
We almost never made it. At our age we've started to feel the need for a disco-nap before venturing out, and I forgot to set the alarm. I woke up at 12.30am in a panic, and we jumped up, showered and arrived at XXL just in time for StoneBridge to start his set at 1. His set was patchy, at least to start, and he didn't seem to be able to decide whether to play tribal, electro or very hands-in-the-air stuff. I quite enjoyed the mixture, but the crowd were unsure. Certainly he played some blinding songs, many of which I'd not heard before. XXL was actually pretty quiet; I guess a lot of people had stayed away because of the crush last time. But also I'm guessing that the pull of StoneBridge wasn't as strong as the Freemasons and a lot of people just decided to stay in Vauxhall. A shame, cause it had all the ingrediants of a good night. You know, I was there!
The weather was awful on Monday so we spent most of it in bed, only venturing out to have lunch with The Drag Queen and a mutual friend (who The Boyf and I have always… admired) and who has just moved into a flat down the road from us. Fancy having him so close by? We're now diverting slightly past his place in case he's wandering around in his pants. Or naked, of course. Does that make us stalkers? Oh well...
And then I had Tuesday off work to finally get my car back on the road. As some of you may recall (by which I mean noone, obviously), some little shit broke into it back in 2006 and since then it's been parked at my Mum's house. What with The Boyf's car being a shit heap (technical term), I finally decided to get mine back home and prepare it for an MOT etc. And now I realise how much I missed it. Not that it's anything special, but it's mine, and that means alot. You will be seeing me roaring up to the Tavern with the stereo blaring, I can assure you.
We had a lovely Bank Holiday weekend, as it turned out. The Boyf's back is well on the mend, so we made the most of it and went out.
Friday night was Tonka, which was quieter than we assumed it was going to be. Always a good social event though.
We went to the gym for the first time in I don't know how long on Saturday, then wandered along the South Bank to have lunch at Brown's (I can thoroughly recommend the Elderflower Mojito - absolutely gorgeous), and to have a look at the Telectroscope, which looks like a giant camera that has crash-landed outside of the Mayor's building. For those of you who don't know, the story goes that they've dug a top-secret tunnel through the Earth between London and New York, and then placed a magnifying device at both ends (the Telectroscope) which enables people to see straight through from either end. It's a lovely idea and had a huge queue of people vying for a look. Although I've not actually read how they've done it I'm assuming that there's simply a camera at either end transmitting images to the opposing city. This is what modern art should be about - something to get involved in and make people talk. Certainly I could hear people in the queue completely taken in by the tunnel story.
We went to the theatre on Saturday evening to see "Wicked", finally. Kerry Ellis (as Elphaba) is amazing. She has such a lovely, non-theatre, singing voice, and I can see why she's leaving to reprise the role on Broadway next month. Apparently she's back in the London production in December, and we're planning on going again to see her. On the whole I thoroughly enjoyed it, even (almost) managing to suspend disbelief. If you haven't seen it already I recommend it, but try to go before Kerry leaves.
Sunday was "I Love Vauxhall" - basically Vauxhall Pride, and thankfully it stopped raining and dried out for the duration. It was a good little event, and certainly a good starting place for an annual affair. We went with the inevitable Drag Queen and OBM's, and then bumped into My Big Little Sister and his lovely husband. And of course, we can't go to Vauxhall on a Sunday without stopping by at the Tavern, but on this occasion it was only a short interlude before we headed home to get ready for XXL Fusion.
We almost never made it. At our age we've started to feel the need for a disco-nap before venturing out, and I forgot to set the alarm. I woke up at 12.30am in a panic, and we jumped up, showered and arrived at XXL just in time for StoneBridge to start his set at 1. His set was patchy, at least to start, and he didn't seem to be able to decide whether to play tribal, electro or very hands-in-the-air stuff. I quite enjoyed the mixture, but the crowd were unsure. Certainly he played some blinding songs, many of which I'd not heard before. XXL was actually pretty quiet; I guess a lot of people had stayed away because of the crush last time. But also I'm guessing that the pull of StoneBridge wasn't as strong as the Freemasons and a lot of people just decided to stay in Vauxhall. A shame, cause it had all the ingrediants of a good night. You know, I was there!
The weather was awful on Monday so we spent most of it in bed, only venturing out to have lunch with The Drag Queen and a mutual friend (who The Boyf and I have always… admired) and who has just moved into a flat down the road from us. Fancy having him so close by? We're now diverting slightly past his place in case he's wandering around in his pants. Or naked, of course. Does that make us stalkers? Oh well...
And then I had Tuesday off work to finally get my car back on the road. As some of you may recall (by which I mean noone, obviously), some little shit broke into it back in 2006 and since then it's been parked at my Mum's house. What with The Boyf's car being a shit heap (technical term), I finally decided to get mine back home and prepare it for an MOT etc. And now I realise how much I missed it. Not that it's anything special, but it's mine, and that means alot. You will be seeing me roaring up to the Tavern with the stereo blaring, I can assure you.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Who Is Idol?
So.... a "surprise" win by David Cook last night then. As Shirley Bassey would say "it's all just a little bit of history repeating"...
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Whose Idol?
Is anyone paying attention to 'American Idol' over here in England apart from me? When I say "attention" I mean I'll leave it on if I accidentally happen to have the tv on and can't find anything else to watch.
Is that David Archuleta not Gareth Gates after extensive surgery? Bland, soulless voice? Check. Apparently rabid fan-base from day one, making it seem impossible for anyone else to win? Check. Talent comprising mainly of being able to look cute on camera? Check. Slightly androgynous, soft speaking voice? Crying in all the right places? Oh, so modest and self-effacing? Check, Check, Check. Career not likely to last past the first album? Oh, I should think so.
I loved it when Gareth was beaten by Will Young, back in the day when tv's were still black and white and when we all listened to the BBC World Service to find out what was going on with the war. You know, when Wagon Wheels were named as such because they were the size of wheels off covered wagons. Before they got all tiny and bite-size, so you can get them in your mouth whole, as I can a jam doughnut. But not at the same time, although I can't say that I've tried. One to add to the list of things to do before I die, along with swimming with sharks, and marrying Sean Connery in the late 1960's. And then divorcing him and marrying Burt Reynolds in the 70's. And then divorcing him and marrying Tom Selleck in the 80's. Currently I'm still hoping to marry Bill Goldberg, but I'm not sure who I should have married in the 90's that I should now be divorcing him for. I had a bit of a hard spot for Bruce Willis, so perhaps we'll go for that.
So, Gareth Gates. What a great talent he turned out to be. I couldn't stand him from day one, with his insipid blandness perfectly calculated to make grannies moist. Those big brown I'm-so-innocent eyes. I still think there was some manipulating going on to allow Will Young to win, as Gareth seemingly already had a career in the bag anyway. Of course, the talent shone though in the end and whilst Gareth faded into a grey, dull-looking obsurity, Will went from ok first album to bloody excellent second, and still rather good third. Gareth's second album doesn't even appear in bargain bins it's so scarce.
So, will David Archaeopteryx "do a Gareth"? Will he come a surprise second, amid allegations of a conspiracy? Will he be miraculously taken under Simon Cowell's wing, only for the spell to suddenly be broken and for people to realise that's he's the sonic equivalent of a fridge - white goods at best?
Oh, to be taken under Simon Cowell's wing. Is it only me that thinks Simon Cowell's kinda hot? I totally would. He's the only reason I'm still watching 'American Idol'. I'm totally going to marry him, as soon as I've married and divorced Bill Goldberg.
'Britain's Got Talent' on the other hand is a marvel of light entertainment. But would someone please stop them wheeling out children to sing "Nessun Dorma"? Or "Ave Maria" for that matter. You'd think there were only two songs that angelic children could sing. What's the betting that the next time that chubby little blond kid is on he'll fucking sing "I'm Walking In The Air"?
Still, I'll sit through it no matter what, just for a look at Simon Cowell's hairy wrists. Is that so wrong?
Is that David Archuleta not Gareth Gates after extensive surgery? Bland, soulless voice? Check. Apparently rabid fan-base from day one, making it seem impossible for anyone else to win? Check. Talent comprising mainly of being able to look cute on camera? Check. Slightly androgynous, soft speaking voice? Crying in all the right places? Oh, so modest and self-effacing? Check, Check, Check. Career not likely to last past the first album? Oh, I should think so.
I loved it when Gareth was beaten by Will Young, back in the day when tv's were still black and white and when we all listened to the BBC World Service to find out what was going on with the war. You know, when Wagon Wheels were named as such because they were the size of wheels off covered wagons. Before they got all tiny and bite-size, so you can get them in your mouth whole, as I can a jam doughnut. But not at the same time, although I can't say that I've tried. One to add to the list of things to do before I die, along with swimming with sharks, and marrying Sean Connery in the late 1960's. And then divorcing him and marrying Burt Reynolds in the 70's. And then divorcing him and marrying Tom Selleck in the 80's. Currently I'm still hoping to marry Bill Goldberg, but I'm not sure who I should have married in the 90's that I should now be divorcing him for. I had a bit of a hard spot for Bruce Willis, so perhaps we'll go for that.
So, Gareth Gates. What a great talent he turned out to be. I couldn't stand him from day one, with his insipid blandness perfectly calculated to make grannies moist. Those big brown I'm-so-innocent eyes. I still think there was some manipulating going on to allow Will Young to win, as Gareth seemingly already had a career in the bag anyway. Of course, the talent shone though in the end and whilst Gareth faded into a grey, dull-looking obsurity, Will went from ok first album to bloody excellent second, and still rather good third. Gareth's second album doesn't even appear in bargain bins it's so scarce.
So, will David Archaeopteryx "do a Gareth"? Will he come a surprise second, amid allegations of a conspiracy? Will he be miraculously taken under Simon Cowell's wing, only for the spell to suddenly be broken and for people to realise that's he's the sonic equivalent of a fridge - white goods at best?
Oh, to be taken under Simon Cowell's wing. Is it only me that thinks Simon Cowell's kinda hot? I totally would. He's the only reason I'm still watching 'American Idol'. I'm totally going to marry him, as soon as I've married and divorced Bill Goldberg.
'Britain's Got Talent' on the other hand is a marvel of light entertainment. But would someone please stop them wheeling out children to sing "Nessun Dorma"? Or "Ave Maria" for that matter. You'd think there were only two songs that angelic children could sing. What's the betting that the next time that chubby little blond kid is on he'll fucking sing "I'm Walking In The Air"?
Still, I'll sit through it no matter what, just for a look at Simon Cowell's hairy wrists. Is that so wrong?
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Social Life? Me?
The Boyf's bad back is, like, totally ruining my social life.
In the last couple of weeks we've barely ventured out of our home, and any clubbing has been done in short burst. Thusly we attended the opening of Beyond, for 2 hours, a couple of weeks back. Verdict; promising but nothing like the "proper" Beyond.
Over the Bank Holiday weekend we actually managed almost a whole Monday at the RVT, but that's only because the weather was good, allowing us to sit outside. We barely went inside and left quite early.
Last weekend we'd made big plans to go to Megawoof!, and The Boyf rested himself specially. However we actually only lasted about 3 hours before he was complaining, and I'd spent my whole time trying to stop people bumping into him (not an easy job in a packed Woof!) and basically fretting about his apparent... unenjoyment? Disenjoyment? Whatever.
Sunday was another unseasonably lovely day so I pressured The Boyf into going to the RVT again to sit outside, and in the end we never even ventured into the building, leaving very early to have food and go home, The Boyf complaining that he wasn't "into it".
Of course, this is all playing havoc with my sex life. I've not even snogged anyone since April, and you have to go back to early March for anything more than that. This is not good news.
So if you do happen to see me out over the next few weeks make sure you take photos and generally make a fuss of the fact that you've missed me. I'm OMO by the way, just in case you'd forgotten...
In the last couple of weeks we've barely ventured out of our home, and any clubbing has been done in short burst. Thusly we attended the opening of Beyond, for 2 hours, a couple of weeks back. Verdict; promising but nothing like the "proper" Beyond.
Over the Bank Holiday weekend we actually managed almost a whole Monday at the RVT, but that's only because the weather was good, allowing us to sit outside. We barely went inside and left quite early.
Last weekend we'd made big plans to go to Megawoof!, and The Boyf rested himself specially. However we actually only lasted about 3 hours before he was complaining, and I'd spent my whole time trying to stop people bumping into him (not an easy job in a packed Woof!) and basically fretting about his apparent... unenjoyment? Disenjoyment? Whatever.
Sunday was another unseasonably lovely day so I pressured The Boyf into going to the RVT again to sit outside, and in the end we never even ventured into the building, leaving very early to have food and go home, The Boyf complaining that he wasn't "into it".
Of course, this is all playing havoc with my sex life. I've not even snogged anyone since April, and you have to go back to early March for anything more than that. This is not good news.
So if you do happen to see me out over the next few weeks make sure you take photos and generally make a fuss of the fact that you've missed me. I'm OMO by the way, just in case you'd forgotten...
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Gayliens
According to this story on the BBC website, the Vatican newspaper has published an article by Father Funes - the Pope's chief astronomer (who knew he even had any astromomers, let alone a chief one) - which states that intelligent life (created by God, natch) could exist elsewhere in the Universe.
The article was entitled "Aliens Are My Brother"; presumably so long as they turn out to be resolutely heterosexual.
Nice to know the Vatican can extend its arm of friendship out to other galaxies but won't do the same for us gays down here on Earth. Jeez!
The article was entitled "Aliens Are My Brother"; presumably so long as they turn out to be resolutely heterosexual.
Nice to know the Vatican can extend its arm of friendship out to other galaxies but won't do the same for us gays down here on Earth. Jeez!
Friday, May 02, 2008
A Big Gay Wedding
So, you have to pretend this is still last week, cause I wrote this and then completely forgot to publish it. Dumb ass.
Well, what a riot our first gay wedding was.
We arrived unfashionably punctual on the dot of 6pm for the champagne reception, with the ceremony due to start at 7. Rather obviously, the place steadily filled up with people The Boyf had had sex with at some time or other. It was held in a Canal Museum (oh, the hilarity of covering up the "C"), and hence was dotted with boating paraphenalia, including a whole barge (which we tried to turn into a dark room). The champagne flowed, my Giggle-Sister (as The Boyf called him) arrived, and by the time the reception started (late) I was already three sheets to the wind and unable to control myself.
The priest was a bit of a shock. It turned out to be the larger half of a couple we've seen at various gay pride events. The pair are always dressed in full Scottish ceremonial garb, and the smaller is usually being led round on a leash by the former. Someone made the mistake of saying "Oh my God, it's priest on a leash!", eliciting another outbreak of uncontrollable giggling among the throng as word spread.
The ceremony was lovely I have to say, although it was packed with innuendo. I mean "I bless this ring" (snigger)? Also, a well-known rent boy read out a poem, which surely could only happen at a gay wedding. By the end we'd all stopped giggling and everyone seemed genuinely moved by what we were witnessing. Even The Boyf managed to stop making eyes at a rather lovely Italian who noone seemed to know and pay the proper attention.
After the ceremony everyone was led upstairs to the reception, where more champagne and wine was forced upon us. The reception was very amusing, purely from a anthropomorphic point of view. The grooms' families were sitting down, in very regular wedding attire (women in big hats and floral dresses, men in either dark suits or chinos and untucked shirts), the friends (apparently all bears) were more eclectically dressed. Some (such as myself) went for very nice suits (I made the mistake of very pale beige, which is now ruined cause I spent the evening spilling red wine all over myself), whilst others opted for more casual attire (half the bears appeared to have been sicked over by an Abercrombie & Fitch shop before arriving). The bears were resolutely standing between bar and buffet, and more than one squeal of "I'm not doing carbs, darling" was heard during the night as huge plates of meat were devoured.
The gorgeous Italian was ahead of me in the queue for the buffet, and I was drunk enough to be incredibly bold, so whispered "Get me some cake" in his ear, whilst gesticulating towards the wedding cake, which was yet to be cut. He smiled and whispered back that he'd love to give me anything I wanted but that I might have to wait. Cue more uncontrollable giggling.
Later in the evening the Italian pulled me to one side, "You wanted the chocolate cake?".
OMO: "Do you have some?"
Italian: "No, but I've just eaten some".
He then pulled me to him and stuck his tongue down my throat. We snogged for a bit.
Italian: "Can you taste it?"
OMO: "Nope. I'm going to need another go".
And that's how the evening progressed. Needless to say The Boyf got wind of it and we were soon taking turns.
We left at about 10pm with most of the rest of the bears, and headed home to change ready for the second leg of the evening - XXL.
XXL was a blast. Nearly everyone from the wedding was there, and were obviously already drunk by the time they'd arrived, meaning that there wasn't the usual quiet hour or two until everyone relaxed and got into the evening.
We quickly bumped into the Italian and his English boyfriend (boooo!), who promptly stuffed his hand down the back of my jeans to cop a feel. And that was pretty much the blueprint for the rest of the evening.
Most of the rest of the night is a little foggy in my memory, and I woke up sometime the next afternoon with a hideous hang-over, which is very unusual for me. And then we had to get ready for the final part of the celebrations, at the RVT.
Urgh! I was shaking all over come Monday I can tell you. Worth it though.
Well, what a riot our first gay wedding was.
We arrived unfashionably punctual on the dot of 6pm for the champagne reception, with the ceremony due to start at 7. Rather obviously, the place steadily filled up with people The Boyf had had sex with at some time or other. It was held in a Canal Museum (oh, the hilarity of covering up the "C"), and hence was dotted with boating paraphenalia, including a whole barge (which we tried to turn into a dark room). The champagne flowed, my Giggle-Sister (as The Boyf called him) arrived, and by the time the reception started (late) I was already three sheets to the wind and unable to control myself.
The priest was a bit of a shock. It turned out to be the larger half of a couple we've seen at various gay pride events. The pair are always dressed in full Scottish ceremonial garb, and the smaller is usually being led round on a leash by the former. Someone made the mistake of saying "Oh my God, it's priest on a leash!", eliciting another outbreak of uncontrollable giggling among the throng as word spread.
The ceremony was lovely I have to say, although it was packed with innuendo. I mean "I bless this ring" (snigger)? Also, a well-known rent boy read out a poem, which surely could only happen at a gay wedding. By the end we'd all stopped giggling and everyone seemed genuinely moved by what we were witnessing. Even The Boyf managed to stop making eyes at a rather lovely Italian who noone seemed to know and pay the proper attention.
After the ceremony everyone was led upstairs to the reception, where more champagne and wine was forced upon us. The reception was very amusing, purely from a anthropomorphic point of view. The grooms' families were sitting down, in very regular wedding attire (women in big hats and floral dresses, men in either dark suits or chinos and untucked shirts), the friends (apparently all bears) were more eclectically dressed. Some (such as myself) went for very nice suits (I made the mistake of very pale beige, which is now ruined cause I spent the evening spilling red wine all over myself), whilst others opted for more casual attire (half the bears appeared to have been sicked over by an Abercrombie & Fitch shop before arriving). The bears were resolutely standing between bar and buffet, and more than one squeal of "I'm not doing carbs, darling" was heard during the night as huge plates of meat were devoured.
The gorgeous Italian was ahead of me in the queue for the buffet, and I was drunk enough to be incredibly bold, so whispered "Get me some cake" in his ear, whilst gesticulating towards the wedding cake, which was yet to be cut. He smiled and whispered back that he'd love to give me anything I wanted but that I might have to wait. Cue more uncontrollable giggling.
Later in the evening the Italian pulled me to one side, "You wanted the chocolate cake?".
OMO: "Do you have some?"
Italian: "No, but I've just eaten some".
He then pulled me to him and stuck his tongue down my throat. We snogged for a bit.
Italian: "Can you taste it?"
OMO: "Nope. I'm going to need another go".
And that's how the evening progressed. Needless to say The Boyf got wind of it and we were soon taking turns.
We left at about 10pm with most of the rest of the bears, and headed home to change ready for the second leg of the evening - XXL.
XXL was a blast. Nearly everyone from the wedding was there, and were obviously already drunk by the time they'd arrived, meaning that there wasn't the usual quiet hour or two until everyone relaxed and got into the evening.
We quickly bumped into the Italian and his English boyfriend (boooo!), who promptly stuffed his hand down the back of my jeans to cop a feel. And that was pretty much the blueprint for the rest of the evening.
Most of the rest of the night is a little foggy in my memory, and I woke up sometime the next afternoon with a hideous hang-over, which is very unusual for me. And then we had to get ready for the final part of the celebrations, at the RVT.
Urgh! I was shaking all over come Monday I can tell you. Worth it though.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Where's My Social Life?
So now The Boyf's put his back out again. There always seems to be something wrong at the moment. We're a sickly pair this year, and it's paying havoc with our social lives.
We stayed home on Friday and Saturday evening, which is fine with me, although I do get a little stir-crazy on Saturday if I know we're not going anywhere.
Sunday was London Marathon day of course, and the runners come past the end of our road, meaning it's blocked off for 8 hours. Last year we escaped to Brighton for the day but this year, with The Boyf not feeling great, we decided to stay home and watch the runners. On the TV. Yup, we didn't even bother to walk 50 yards down the road, preferring to simply go "Oh look, there's our house" at the TV. Lazy, lazy OMO.
By the time the road had reopened we were both a bit fed up with being at home so put on our glad-rags and headed to the RVT, with the intention of meeting The Drag Queen for a dance. (Well, I intended to dance, The Boyf was just going to prop himself against the bar). How unlikely was it that just as we arrived The Drag Queen phoned to say that some man she'd met in The Shadow Lounge (!) a couple of weeks ago and phoned her to say he felt horny and did she fancy a shag? She couldn't remember what he looked like but had said yes anyway. Classy. She vowed to come to the RVT after satisfying herself but we correctly decided not to hold our breath - she never did turn up.
The RVT seemed a little quieter than usual. Apparently all of the members of my little fan-club have gone on holiday at the same time, leaving me resolutely unsullied for the entire evening. Not one person groped me! Very upsetting. In fact, lots of the regulars weren't there, which seemed odd. So I had a little dance pretty much on my own, with The Boyf watching from the sidelines, and then he decided he needed to get home and rest his back so we headed off at a very early hour. An odd evening.
Incredibly, this weekend we are attending our first gay wedding, so that should be fun, especially considering we've slept with both of the grooms on separate occasions without the other knowing. In our defence I would like to add that we didn't know they were a couple; we met them on their own on consecutive weeks. On the third week we bumped into them together in a club and they introduced themselves as a couple (who'd only been together for a few weeks). There was an awkward moment where we weren't sure what to say and where they tried to establish how everyone already knew each other ("Oh, we just got chatting in a bar"), and then everything seemed to resolve itself. So, anyway, we're going to their wedding and then no doubt that will lead to clubbing or whatever. It'll be fun anyway. I just don't know what to wear. I know I'm going to either be hideously over or under dressed, but I'm thinking over would be preferable, wouldn't you agree?
We stayed home on Friday and Saturday evening, which is fine with me, although I do get a little stir-crazy on Saturday if I know we're not going anywhere.
Sunday was London Marathon day of course, and the runners come past the end of our road, meaning it's blocked off for 8 hours. Last year we escaped to Brighton for the day but this year, with The Boyf not feeling great, we decided to stay home and watch the runners. On the TV. Yup, we didn't even bother to walk 50 yards down the road, preferring to simply go "Oh look, there's our house" at the TV. Lazy, lazy OMO.
By the time the road had reopened we were both a bit fed up with being at home so put on our glad-rags and headed to the RVT, with the intention of meeting The Drag Queen for a dance. (Well, I intended to dance, The Boyf was just going to prop himself against the bar). How unlikely was it that just as we arrived The Drag Queen phoned to say that some man she'd met in The Shadow Lounge (!) a couple of weeks ago and phoned her to say he felt horny and did she fancy a shag? She couldn't remember what he looked like but had said yes anyway. Classy. She vowed to come to the RVT after satisfying herself but we correctly decided not to hold our breath - she never did turn up.
The RVT seemed a little quieter than usual. Apparently all of the members of my little fan-club have gone on holiday at the same time, leaving me resolutely unsullied for the entire evening. Not one person groped me! Very upsetting. In fact, lots of the regulars weren't there, which seemed odd. So I had a little dance pretty much on my own, with The Boyf watching from the sidelines, and then he decided he needed to get home and rest his back so we headed off at a very early hour. An odd evening.
Incredibly, this weekend we are attending our first gay wedding, so that should be fun, especially considering we've slept with both of the grooms on separate occasions without the other knowing. In our defence I would like to add that we didn't know they were a couple; we met them on their own on consecutive weeks. On the third week we bumped into them together in a club and they introduced themselves as a couple (who'd only been together for a few weeks). There was an awkward moment where we weren't sure what to say and where they tried to establish how everyone already knew each other ("Oh, we just got chatting in a bar"), and then everything seemed to resolve itself. So, anyway, we're going to their wedding and then no doubt that will lead to clubbing or whatever. It'll be fun anyway. I just don't know what to wear. I know I'm going to either be hideously over or under dressed, but I'm thinking over would be preferable, wouldn't you agree?
Friday, April 11, 2008
More Delayed Reaction
Arriving at JFK I'd arranged for us to be picked up by a friend (another lovely surprise for The Boyf), and because I was so ill he whisked us back to his home in Westchester rather than us heading to the hotel I'd booked. Once there he and his partner cooked us a wonderful meal and generally pampered us, and then at some point very early on I was told to go to bed and rest whilst The Boyf stayed up to into the wee hours talking and drinking.
On Saturday morning our friends drove us back into NY and to our hotel, and then we decided to try to go for a little walk. It was as much as I could manage just to stand up, but dragged sorry ass along regardless. Neither of us had been up the Empire State Building, and it's one of those things that tourists have to do, by pain of death. Mind you, I've been to San Francisco twice now and still haven't been to Alcatraz. Anyway, we bought queue-jump tickets and headed up, and I have to say that it was well worth it. The weather was lovely, although it was rather windy up the top (as I assume it always is pretty much), and it helped to blow the cobwebs out of my head, albeit only for 10 minutes. After that I managed to stumble up to Times Square and then on to Central Park, where we had a nice rest in the sunshine. After that I needed a rest and wanted to head back to the hotel for a sleep in preparation for the Black Party, which I really wasn’t looking forward to.
On the way back to the hotel we passed the Abercrombie & Fitch shop, and being uncontrollably gay we were drawn inside. What hilarity! We've not long had Abercrombie & Fitch in the UK and The Boyf and I have never ventured in. The NY shop was dark - the house music was doing the old thumpa-thumpa at a ridiculous volume, and the assistants were dancing. For a little while I actually forgot how ill I felt as the rhythm caught me and dragged me around the shop, giggling. I phoned The Drag Queen back in Blighty.
"Where on Earth are you? Are you in a club already?"
"No, we're in Abercrombie & Fitch and I think some drugs I took a while back are coming back up"
"Huh? I can't really hear you. What club did you say it was?"
(Shouting) "Abercrombie & Fitch"
"They've opened a club now?"
(Shouting) "Apparently. And they're trying to flog clothes while you dance"
"I'm gonna go - I can't hear you over the top of that wailing diva"
That really did sap the last of my strength so we went back to the hotel and I had a fitful 4 hour sleep before lumbering out of bed and getting ready for big night out.
We arrived at the Black Party at an unseasonal 10.30pm, thinking that we wanted to scope the Roseland Ballroom out, having never been there before. Plus The Boyf likes to watch people arrive and see the night build. The cloakroom was a paragon of efficiency, I have to say. Way better than the clubs in England, but then we don't really have any dance parties of that size, although of course we have so much choice every weekend which NY doesn’t have any more.
So, what do you want to know about the Black Party? Well, the men were gorgeous! It was so nice to go out and see fresh faces (to us at least), and some of them were stunning. I utterly fell in love with a Middle-Eastern gentleman and couldn't take my eyes off him. Elsewhere some sexy guy was being spray-painted on a pool table (not sure why), and upstairs someone was being hung by hooks through his back. Not the kind of thing I like to see when out clubbing, but hey-ho. As for the music, I didn't actually hear any. There did seem to be incredibly loud construction work going on somewhere in the building though, and people were dancing to the rhythm of it. Well, shuffling from one foot to another anyway.
Everyone was giving me a wide berth, and when I caught sight of myself in a mirror I wasn't surprised. I really did look awful. Actually I looked like a junkie who'd just been on a month-long bender of alcohol and drugs. Little did they know that the only drug in my system was Tylenol.
We bumped into a group of guys we knew from London and ended up dancing with them. I mean, you don't go somewhere foreign to mix with the locals! I jest of course, it was just that I couldn't hear myself think over the metallic banging noise (with the odd diva-scream vocal, or some guy repeating "I wanna fuck you") which seemed to be in perfect time to be throbbing headache. I did manage a few words with a very sexy guy from Chicago, but then his boyfriend gave me a fearful look and dragged him away. No doubt he'd seen the Infected in "I Am Legend" and recognised my look.
Early on I'd noticed a medical tent upstairs, and by 6am was having trouble standing so thought I'd pop up and maybe have a sit on a bed for a bit. When I got there the place was packed. "Christ", I thought, "lots of people aren't feeling well". I pushed my way inside and that's when I realised the examinations being performed were of a completely non-medical kind. I'd wandered into an orgy. Needless to say I really wasn't in the mood, and it made up my mind that I should call it a day, leaving The Boyf to enjoy the revelry.
Our Sunday was largely spent in bed. The Boyf had over-done it at the Black Party and felt awful. I just felt dreadful, so we stayed in the hotel for most of the day, only venturing out for food and some fresh air, before returning and sleeping until Monday when we had to get up for an early flight.
And that was our Black Party. For me a total loss, but at least The Boyf enjoyed himself (the tales he's told me since would make a whore blush).
Oh well, there's always next year...
On Saturday morning our friends drove us back into NY and to our hotel, and then we decided to try to go for a little walk. It was as much as I could manage just to stand up, but dragged sorry ass along regardless. Neither of us had been up the Empire State Building, and it's one of those things that tourists have to do, by pain of death. Mind you, I've been to San Francisco twice now and still haven't been to Alcatraz. Anyway, we bought queue-jump tickets and headed up, and I have to say that it was well worth it. The weather was lovely, although it was rather windy up the top (as I assume it always is pretty much), and it helped to blow the cobwebs out of my head, albeit only for 10 minutes. After that I managed to stumble up to Times Square and then on to Central Park, where we had a nice rest in the sunshine. After that I needed a rest and wanted to head back to the hotel for a sleep in preparation for the Black Party, which I really wasn’t looking forward to.
On the way back to the hotel we passed the Abercrombie & Fitch shop, and being uncontrollably gay we were drawn inside. What hilarity! We've not long had Abercrombie & Fitch in the UK and The Boyf and I have never ventured in. The NY shop was dark - the house music was doing the old thumpa-thumpa at a ridiculous volume, and the assistants were dancing. For a little while I actually forgot how ill I felt as the rhythm caught me and dragged me around the shop, giggling. I phoned The Drag Queen back in Blighty.
"Where on Earth are you? Are you in a club already?"
"No, we're in Abercrombie & Fitch and I think some drugs I took a while back are coming back up"
"Huh? I can't really hear you. What club did you say it was?"
(Shouting) "Abercrombie & Fitch"
"They've opened a club now?"
(Shouting) "Apparently. And they're trying to flog clothes while you dance"
"I'm gonna go - I can't hear you over the top of that wailing diva"
That really did sap the last of my strength so we went back to the hotel and I had a fitful 4 hour sleep before lumbering out of bed and getting ready for big night out.
We arrived at the Black Party at an unseasonal 10.30pm, thinking that we wanted to scope the Roseland Ballroom out, having never been there before. Plus The Boyf likes to watch people arrive and see the night build. The cloakroom was a paragon of efficiency, I have to say. Way better than the clubs in England, but then we don't really have any dance parties of that size, although of course we have so much choice every weekend which NY doesn’t have any more.
So, what do you want to know about the Black Party? Well, the men were gorgeous! It was so nice to go out and see fresh faces (to us at least), and some of them were stunning. I utterly fell in love with a Middle-Eastern gentleman and couldn't take my eyes off him. Elsewhere some sexy guy was being spray-painted on a pool table (not sure why), and upstairs someone was being hung by hooks through his back. Not the kind of thing I like to see when out clubbing, but hey-ho. As for the music, I didn't actually hear any. There did seem to be incredibly loud construction work going on somewhere in the building though, and people were dancing to the rhythm of it. Well, shuffling from one foot to another anyway.
Everyone was giving me a wide berth, and when I caught sight of myself in a mirror I wasn't surprised. I really did look awful. Actually I looked like a junkie who'd just been on a month-long bender of alcohol and drugs. Little did they know that the only drug in my system was Tylenol.
We bumped into a group of guys we knew from London and ended up dancing with them. I mean, you don't go somewhere foreign to mix with the locals! I jest of course, it was just that I couldn't hear myself think over the metallic banging noise (with the odd diva-scream vocal, or some guy repeating "I wanna fuck you") which seemed to be in perfect time to be throbbing headache. I did manage a few words with a very sexy guy from Chicago, but then his boyfriend gave me a fearful look and dragged him away. No doubt he'd seen the Infected in "I Am Legend" and recognised my look.
Early on I'd noticed a medical tent upstairs, and by 6am was having trouble standing so thought I'd pop up and maybe have a sit on a bed for a bit. When I got there the place was packed. "Christ", I thought, "lots of people aren't feeling well". I pushed my way inside and that's when I realised the examinations being performed were of a completely non-medical kind. I'd wandered into an orgy. Needless to say I really wasn't in the mood, and it made up my mind that I should call it a day, leaving The Boyf to enjoy the revelry.
Our Sunday was largely spent in bed. The Boyf had over-done it at the Black Party and felt awful. I just felt dreadful, so we stayed in the hotel for most of the day, only venturing out for food and some fresh air, before returning and sleeping until Monday when we had to get up for an early flight.
And that was our Black Party. For me a total loss, but at least The Boyf enjoyed himself (the tales he's told me since would make a whore blush).
Oh well, there's always next year...
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Delayed Reaction
Ok, I know I'm lazy but this time I have an excuse; I've been ill. Admittedly not since before Easter, which is when I last wrote anything, but still...
Easter was a lot of fun, for the most part. We did Tonka on the Friday, which is always a bit of a riot, and then we chanced going to Area for Juicy on Saturday night. We weren't expecting to enjoy ourselves but actually had a great night. The music was pretty good, and the crowd was very sexy indeed. I had the right horn I can tell you. Did me no good whatsoever though. Bummer.
Sunday was Fusion at XXL with the Freemasons DJing. The Boyf wasn't impressed; "I don't see why we want to go and see a couple of 50 year olds playing other people's records and getting applause for it". The Superstar DJ thing passes him by, and I do understand his point. Lots of people obviously disagreed however; XXL was absolutely rammed and it tipped over from being manic but fun into being very uncomfortable. There didn't seem to be any more bar staff than usual and the queues for a drink were a nightmare. And then a friend of ours collapsed. Luckily medics were on the scene really quickly, and good job they were as they actually had to resusitate him at one point. He was carted off to hospital and was fine the next day. Us not so much. Seeing a friend come close to death had hit us hard and we're not in a good mood with him at the moment, although we're obviously pleased that he's ok. It's caused a little rift amoung our friends i.e. between those that do that particular drug and those of us who don't. The takers are sticking together - it's obviously too close to home and is raising questions they'd rather not think about. Anyway, it's a storm in a tea-cup, but there are certainly going to be words said if anything happens in future. We simply don't want to see our friends putting themselves in danger.
And that's when I got ill. I came down with the flu on the Thursday, just in time for our trip to New York on Friday. I felt fucking dreadful, I can tell you. It was a surprise trip for The Boyf's birthday and I woke him up early on Friday morning to tell him he wasn't going to work cause we were off somewhere. All I wanted to do was stay in bed. Anyway, we jumped on the tube and started our journey out to Heathrow, with The Boyf suddenly realising that a flight was involved. Amazingly we managed to get through the check-in and into the departure lounge before he found out where we were going. And he was one pleased bunny. Even cried, bless him.
(to be continued...)
Easter was a lot of fun, for the most part. We did Tonka on the Friday, which is always a bit of a riot, and then we chanced going to Area for Juicy on Saturday night. We weren't expecting to enjoy ourselves but actually had a great night. The music was pretty good, and the crowd was very sexy indeed. I had the right horn I can tell you. Did me no good whatsoever though. Bummer.
Sunday was Fusion at XXL with the Freemasons DJing. The Boyf wasn't impressed; "I don't see why we want to go and see a couple of 50 year olds playing other people's records and getting applause for it". The Superstar DJ thing passes him by, and I do understand his point. Lots of people obviously disagreed however; XXL was absolutely rammed and it tipped over from being manic but fun into being very uncomfortable. There didn't seem to be any more bar staff than usual and the queues for a drink were a nightmare. And then a friend of ours collapsed. Luckily medics were on the scene really quickly, and good job they were as they actually had to resusitate him at one point. He was carted off to hospital and was fine the next day. Us not so much. Seeing a friend come close to death had hit us hard and we're not in a good mood with him at the moment, although we're obviously pleased that he's ok. It's caused a little rift amoung our friends i.e. between those that do that particular drug and those of us who don't. The takers are sticking together - it's obviously too close to home and is raising questions they'd rather not think about. Anyway, it's a storm in a tea-cup, but there are certainly going to be words said if anything happens in future. We simply don't want to see our friends putting themselves in danger.
And that's when I got ill. I came down with the flu on the Thursday, just in time for our trip to New York on Friday. I felt fucking dreadful, I can tell you. It was a surprise trip for The Boyf's birthday and I woke him up early on Friday morning to tell him he wasn't going to work cause we were off somewhere. All I wanted to do was stay in bed. Anyway, we jumped on the tube and started our journey out to Heathrow, with The Boyf suddenly realising that a flight was involved. Amazingly we managed to get through the check-in and into the departure lounge before he found out where we were going. And he was one pleased bunny. Even cried, bless him.
(to be continued...)
Thursday, March 20, 2008
The Boyf Goes Away - I Go Bonkers
Last weekend was pretty quiet. We'd decided long ago that it would be, as we're going to be out a fair bit over Easter, plus we have NY the week after. Also, The Boyf had a course in Birmingham on Monday and had decided to travel up on Sunday and stay in a hotel, so it gave me a day to chill out on my own.
The weather was grey and miserable - exactly how I like it on a Sunday when I'm at home. So I roasted myself a chicken to have with some salad, wrapped myself up in a duvet and flopped in front of the tv to watch the opening race of this years F1 Grand Prix season.
And then The Drag Queen phoned me. She'd been to Trade since 6 in the morning and was dragging herself back out into daylight at 3.45pm, along with OBM#1. Sounding remarkably fresh she then planted the seed which I was hoping she wouldn't; did I fancy going to the RVT? How was I going to be able to resist? Needless to say, two hours later I'd shaved my head, primped, plucked and generally preened and was running out the door to get a tube.
Once there I was ushered to the front of the queue and VIP'd in by the doorman so didn't have to pay - result! - and then bumped straight into a new friend of mine, who we'll refer to as The Mongol. He's short, dark, hairy and gorgeous - just how I like my men. And that's when it all gets a little bit unclear in my mind. The lovely Spanish barman offered me a Sambuca shot and then I decided it would be a good idea having one between every pint. I know I had a great time, but the further it gets into the evening the less I seem to remember. I got spectacularly drunk.
I don't remember leaving the RVT but somehow I ended up in The Hoist at midnight, on my own. The place was pretty empty. I didn't stay long, but I did still manage to… well… pleasure someone orally, to be demure about it. No idea who. I know he was slightly older with grey fair and a very fit, smooth body. I don't normally go for smooth, but he was in very good shape and I distinctly remember him having great, chewable nipples. More importantly, he was the only person to pay me any attention. Frankly I'm not surprised - I must have been quite a sight by that time in the evening.
I woke up on Monday morning with the Mother of all hang-overs and with the light still on and the hoover running, and with no idea as to how I got there. I had managed to fold my clothes up very neatly though, so it's nice to know my gayness shines through any drunken haze.
The weather was grey and miserable - exactly how I like it on a Sunday when I'm at home. So I roasted myself a chicken to have with some salad, wrapped myself up in a duvet and flopped in front of the tv to watch the opening race of this years F1 Grand Prix season.
And then The Drag Queen phoned me. She'd been to Trade since 6 in the morning and was dragging herself back out into daylight at 3.45pm, along with OBM#1. Sounding remarkably fresh she then planted the seed which I was hoping she wouldn't; did I fancy going to the RVT? How was I going to be able to resist? Needless to say, two hours later I'd shaved my head, primped, plucked and generally preened and was running out the door to get a tube.
Once there I was ushered to the front of the queue and VIP'd in by the doorman so didn't have to pay - result! - and then bumped straight into a new friend of mine, who we'll refer to as The Mongol. He's short, dark, hairy and gorgeous - just how I like my men. And that's when it all gets a little bit unclear in my mind. The lovely Spanish barman offered me a Sambuca shot and then I decided it would be a good idea having one between every pint. I know I had a great time, but the further it gets into the evening the less I seem to remember. I got spectacularly drunk.
I don't remember leaving the RVT but somehow I ended up in The Hoist at midnight, on my own. The place was pretty empty. I didn't stay long, but I did still manage to… well… pleasure someone orally, to be demure about it. No idea who. I know he was slightly older with grey fair and a very fit, smooth body. I don't normally go for smooth, but he was in very good shape and I distinctly remember him having great, chewable nipples. More importantly, he was the only person to pay me any attention. Frankly I'm not surprised - I must have been quite a sight by that time in the evening.
I woke up on Monday morning with the Mother of all hang-overs and with the light still on and the hoover running, and with no idea as to how I got there. I had managed to fold my clothes up very neatly though, so it's nice to know my gayness shines through any drunken haze.
Friday, March 14, 2008
No Rest For The Wicked
Typical! I get a little break at work in which I can write something, and now I can't think of anything to write about.
I can't tell you how stressed out at work I am at the moment. Things are getting silly. I've got work coming out of my ears and I'm not great at coping with it. Having too much to do is counter-productive for me. And of course, I tend to bottle the stress up. I go quiet (apart from the odd expletive) rather than shouting and screaming. The Boyf has no idea. The last thing I want to do when I get home it talk about how stressed work is making me. I just want to go home and forget about it for a few hours.
I set myself little goals - little things to look forward to - to get me through the week. It can be anything; at the moment I'm looking forward to the fact that The Boyf's going away for a night and it means I'll have the place to myself. It's good to have some space sometimes. So this week I'm diverting my attention to thinking about what I'm going to spend my Boyf-less time doing, even if it's just cooking myself something to eat that he doesn’t like (i.e. fish) and reading a book. Next week I'll divert my attention with planning Easter, and after that with our trip to NY (which The Boyf doesn't know anything about as it's a surprise birthday present).
The last time I went to NY was in 2005, for Valentine's in fact. I was dating a guy from Manhatten and had gone to visit for the first time (and last, as it turned out). He was a lovely guy - still is, in fact - but I have to admit that I most enjoyed both the Friday and the Monday when I had time to roam the city on my own, which I did at length. There's nothing quite like walking around a new city on your own for hours on end. Going with The Boyf will be fun though; he'll be far more up for mischief and less likely to try to hide me in a corner in The Eagle like the ex did. And of course I'm looking forward to doing a little Blogger spotting; seeing if I can see such luminaries as Joe.My.God, The Farmboyz and The Mark of Kane. Knowing me I won't be able to speak to them, unless I've VERY drunk, in which case they'll probably wish I hadn't plucked up the courage.
Oh well, that passed a little time. Amazing how much I can waffle on when I can't think of anything to say.
I can't tell you how stressed out at work I am at the moment. Things are getting silly. I've got work coming out of my ears and I'm not great at coping with it. Having too much to do is counter-productive for me. And of course, I tend to bottle the stress up. I go quiet (apart from the odd expletive) rather than shouting and screaming. The Boyf has no idea. The last thing I want to do when I get home it talk about how stressed work is making me. I just want to go home and forget about it for a few hours.
I set myself little goals - little things to look forward to - to get me through the week. It can be anything; at the moment I'm looking forward to the fact that The Boyf's going away for a night and it means I'll have the place to myself. It's good to have some space sometimes. So this week I'm diverting my attention to thinking about what I'm going to spend my Boyf-less time doing, even if it's just cooking myself something to eat that he doesn’t like (i.e. fish) and reading a book. Next week I'll divert my attention with planning Easter, and after that with our trip to NY (which The Boyf doesn't know anything about as it's a surprise birthday present).
The last time I went to NY was in 2005, for Valentine's in fact. I was dating a guy from Manhatten and had gone to visit for the first time (and last, as it turned out). He was a lovely guy - still is, in fact - but I have to admit that I most enjoyed both the Friday and the Monday when I had time to roam the city on my own, which I did at length. There's nothing quite like walking around a new city on your own for hours on end. Going with The Boyf will be fun though; he'll be far more up for mischief and less likely to try to hide me in a corner in The Eagle like the ex did. And of course I'm looking forward to doing a little Blogger spotting; seeing if I can see such luminaries as Joe.My.God, The Farmboyz and The Mark of Kane. Knowing me I won't be able to speak to them, unless I've VERY drunk, in which case they'll probably wish I hadn't plucked up the courage.
Oh well, that passed a little time. Amazing how much I can waffle on when I can't think of anything to say.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Yawn
Morning!
Huh? Where have I been? Er… well… mainly I've just been lazy, but actually (as I think I may have already mentioned) my work is incredibly busy now-a-days, meaning I don't get time to write when I would normally do so. Also, because The Boyf doesn't know I write this - for reasons which I either can't remember or seem no longer valid - I can't do any writing at home. When I started this I wanted to be able to vent without The Boyf reading it and possibly getting upset, but this blog doesn't seem to have taken that direction. But now I've been doing it so long I can't tell him cause he'll wonder why I've kept it a secret.
Anyway.
We've not done very much clubbing recently - because by and large it's a bit crap at the moment what with the same old electronic bleeping and attitude-ridden Angertwinks. As for playthings - January was a very dry month, but February saw two Australians and a Spaniard come round for a little of the old "how's your father". We're currently being pursued by a lovely Iraqi, and I'm not running away too fast, whilst I still have two Turks, two Italians and an Albanian on the cards in case I get bored.
Megawoof! moved venues last weekend, to the Colosseum, which usually means the death of a club-night. It did seem rather quiet early on but then suddenly seemed to get very busy. The crowd seemed very slightly different, and there were a few faces missing who would normally have been there, but then there were a lot of goings-on elsewhere to entice people (we had friends travelling to some leather thing in Berlin and the Sydney Mardi Gras). All in all though it was a triumph, and we made sure Daz and Diddy (the promotors) were told as much.
The day before we attended a birthday bash at Tonka, which is always a good social night out. It seemed like almost every guy I fancied was in attendance, and I actually had a fit of nervous giggling and had to go outside to calm down at one point. It didn't help that a friend of ours turned up with his new beau, who turned out to be the man I consider to be the best looker in London. As usual he didn't speak to me, although he does seem genuinely shy. And frankly I'd forgive him anything.
At the end of the month I'm taking The Boyf to New York for the Black Party and to visit friends as it's his birthday, and when we get back we'll be attending our first gay wedding. And before all that we have a busy Easter schedule of friends' birthdays and clubbing. So hopefully I'll get chance to tell you all about it.
Huh? Where have I been? Er… well… mainly I've just been lazy, but actually (as I think I may have already mentioned) my work is incredibly busy now-a-days, meaning I don't get time to write when I would normally do so. Also, because The Boyf doesn't know I write this - for reasons which I either can't remember or seem no longer valid - I can't do any writing at home. When I started this I wanted to be able to vent without The Boyf reading it and possibly getting upset, but this blog doesn't seem to have taken that direction. But now I've been doing it so long I can't tell him cause he'll wonder why I've kept it a secret.
Anyway.
We've not done very much clubbing recently - because by and large it's a bit crap at the moment what with the same old electronic bleeping and attitude-ridden Angertwinks. As for playthings - January was a very dry month, but February saw two Australians and a Spaniard come round for a little of the old "how's your father". We're currently being pursued by a lovely Iraqi, and I'm not running away too fast, whilst I still have two Turks, two Italians and an Albanian on the cards in case I get bored.
Megawoof! moved venues last weekend, to the Colosseum, which usually means the death of a club-night. It did seem rather quiet early on but then suddenly seemed to get very busy. The crowd seemed very slightly different, and there were a few faces missing who would normally have been there, but then there were a lot of goings-on elsewhere to entice people (we had friends travelling to some leather thing in Berlin and the Sydney Mardi Gras). All in all though it was a triumph, and we made sure Daz and Diddy (the promotors) were told as much.
The day before we attended a birthday bash at Tonka, which is always a good social night out. It seemed like almost every guy I fancied was in attendance, and I actually had a fit of nervous giggling and had to go outside to calm down at one point. It didn't help that a friend of ours turned up with his new beau, who turned out to be the man I consider to be the best looker in London. As usual he didn't speak to me, although he does seem genuinely shy. And frankly I'd forgive him anything.
At the end of the month I'm taking The Boyf to New York for the Black Party and to visit friends as it's his birthday, and when we get back we'll be attending our first gay wedding. And before all that we have a busy Easter schedule of friends' birthdays and clubbing. So hopefully I'll get chance to tell you all about it.
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